The lady behind the till at B&Q thought so as well as I eventually made it to the check-out with my dream axe, my dream power tool and my dream ninja throwing star. Impressed as she was, she aired a certain amount of concern for my personal security. All that sharp stuff and not an ounce of safety equipment.

"You be careful with that lot," she said, somewhat prophetically, "We don't want to hear about any nasty accidents."

"Never you mind, ma'am," I replied in my most authoritative voice as Mrs Duck shrunk away in embarrassment, "For I am The Mighty Alexander, and this is my assistant, The Lovely Debbie McGee."

"Oh yeah?"

"We are, I'll have you know, Weymouth's third best juggling act."

I swept my cape over my shoulder, and left, stage right.

Two hours later, I was back for a set of chisels and half a pound of assorted nails (in a packet marked 'No More No More Nails'), because, as you know, all DIY jobs throw up unexpected challenges.

Alas, on the way down to the store, I spent a profitable few minutes picking at a zit that had appeared on my right ear, and drawn blood. And man, don't ears hold a lot of blood. Loads.

Clutching my purchases, and bleeding steadily on my Homme-at-Matalan three-quid-from-an-Indonesian-sweat-shop polo shirt, I found myself at exactly the same till.

She looked me up and down, with not a little terror.

"Did I tell you that we are also a knife-throwing act?"

"And your assistant?" she said, noticing that on this occasion I was solo.

"We have a vacancy on that front, it grieves me to say. Do you happen to sell a good first aid kit?"

Unsurprisingly, she declined my offer to run away and join the circus on minimum wage and a low-to-medium chance of getting killed TO DEATH.

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